Stay With Me
by special-rock
Summary: All he had to do was convince her to stay. - Paul/Rachel


**Disclaimer: Don't own this franchise. Fortunately.**

**A/N: I may have expressed my dislike of Twilight in the past. You won't tell anyone about this, will you?**

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Coming home was harder than leaving.

The tiny hand-operated service station just outside of Forks had not changed a bit, Rachel mused. The same old man with his grey beard and shiny head still hobbled out of the little shop to attach the pump to her car, and the pump still took over ten minutes to fill up her tank with barely twenty litres of petrol. The transaction still took place through her car window, and the old man still rapped on her car boot twice to let her know she was in the clear.

As she pulled out of the service station and flicked the indicator on to turn onto the main highway, she noticed that there was still the same absence of traffic that she had grown so used to seeing in the city. There were no cars for at least a kilometre in either direction. She pulled out onto the road, accelerating to the top end of the speed limit, and fixed the radio to some eighties rock station. It was not her usual preferred music, but it seemed to fit the overcast, depressing town of Forks well enough.

The high school still had the same message sign covered with remnants of terrible graffiti, proudly broadcasting its message of WELCOME TO FORKS HIGH SCHOOL to the highway. The buildings were still that depressing, tacky grey and the oval was as green and overgrown as it had been the day she had driven past it on the way out of here three years ago. The entire town, from the outdoors shop to the supermarket to the library to the police station that she sped past on the outskirts of Forks, had not changed one bit. It was still as boring as ever.

The only thing that seemed to have changed was Rachel herself.

The drive from Forks to La Push took around fifteen minutes, the silence in her car broken by a scratchy rendition of some eighties hit that she vaguely remembered hearing from her roommates' stereo one of the first nights they'd been living together. She had quickly informed him that eighties music was not to be played in the apartment, lest he be kicked out into the cold. Now, it just reminded her of what it had been like living away from home, away from the reservation, away from everything.

She found that she was already regretting her decision to come home, even as her car rounded the last bend to reveal the La Push coastline. First Beach was spread outside her window, and she rolled it down to let in the salty sea breeze. A blast of cold air entered the car with it, whipping her hair behind her as she entered the reservation, driving past the general store – did the Atearas still run it? Perhaps little Quil, one of her brother's best friends, worked there now that he was old enough –and the harbour. The jetties were empty, the streetlight illuminating rows of abandoned fishing boats covered with floors of nets.

She indicated left, turning off the main highway into another local road that wound through the forest. The trees blocked out the light, and she recalled how little sunlight had gotten through and how depressing the house had been all year round. It was early evening and beginning to get dark, so she flicked the headlights on to illuminate the road before her. There were no lines – council funds were obviously still short enough to warrant a boycott of convenient road painting – but there were no cars coming her way to justify them.

She came to the third left and turned onto the gravel road, her car wheels crunching satisfyingly when she accelerated down the drive, surrounded by the tall trees of the forest. After a few minutes, the trees started to thin and the light started to come through more, finally revealing a large clearing wherein a little house with faded and flaking red paint on local wood and with a rusting iron roof was situated. Home.

She drove around the house to the back, where she knew the shed was located. From what she could see by her headlights, the shed was full of automobile parts that looked like they were scavenged from the tip. However, there seemed to be some amount of organisation, and she guessed that the shed was where Jacob spent most of his time, now that he was sixteen and had to have some sort of hobby. He had always been good with cars, she remembered, hanging around Billy when he was five or six years old, eager to hand tools to him as soon as they were needed.

Rachel pulled up beside a dodgy-looking Volkswagen Rabbit – it must be Jacob's, as Billy could not drive – and killed the engine, slipping the keys into her handbag and climbing out of her car, careful that her heels did not sink into the soft ground. She inhaled deeply, the earthy smell of home filling her lungs – it smelt so clean after the polluted air of the city. She closed the door behind her and went to the back of the car, grabbing her suitcase and slamming the boot down. She did not bother locking the car – the chances of someone stealing it out here were ridiculously low – and made her way over to the house.

When she got to the front door it was pulled open to reveal her father in his wheelchair, with his long black-grey hair and flannelette shirt that he had owned for over a decade, a broad smile creasing his eyes.

"Rachel! I wasn't expecting you home so early!"

"Hey, dad." Rachel bent down to wrap her arms around her father. He smelt like he always had – like earth and leather and soap. "Yeah, the traffic on the 101 was pretty light. And I left early."

"It's good to see you. Come inside, we'll get you settled." Billy wheeled backwards into the living room/kitchen to let her through the door.

It should not have been as hard as it was, but for some reason taking the first step over the threshold into the house for the first time in three years felt almost physically taxing. But she told herself that nothing had changed, so there was nothing to worry about – she had seen it all before. So she took that first step inside the house and pulled the door closed behind her, effectively forcing herself to not run back to her car and drive back to the city and hide in her apartment. This was home. This was home. This was home.

"I was just about to start dinner," Billy called over his shoulder, wheeling into the kitchen as Rachel rolled her suitcase into the living room. She looked around at the worn, threadbare plaid couches, the small television, and the wooden-panelled walls decorated with tribal art and sculptures. The lighting was terrible, but it cast a warm yellow glow over the crowded room, giving it a homey feel that reminded Rachel of times when she was younger, before the accident. Yet the house seemed incredibly empty – she could not imagine how lonely Billy must be, even with Jacob around.

"What are you making?" Rachel asked, still looking around the room. She leant her suitcase against the hallway wall and put her handbag on top of it, smoothing down her suit-dress which, while in the city had seemed to be a perfectly good choice, suddenly seemed entirely too professional for the current setting. The heels also seemed incredibly out of place, so she slipped them off and continued into the kitchen barefooted.

Billy had the fridge open and was ferrying several boxes of what looked like frozen pizza from there to the bench, where a six-pack of beer was already waiting.

Rachel grimaced internally.

"Frozen pizza, dad? Really?"

Billy looked slightly abashed. "Well, Jake and I aren't exactly the best of chefs..."

Rachel sighed, running her fingers through her hair. "I'll make dinner. You go and have a beer."

"No, Rach, you've just driven for over six hours. I'm not going to let you make dinner."

"Dad, it's fine." She brushed his hands away. "Now shoo before I wheel you out myself."

"Sure, pick on the guy in the wheelchair," Billy chuckled as he settled himself in front of the television, cracking open a beer and flipping through the channels to a baseball game.

Rachel shook her head, smiling a little. The kitchen was tiny, smaller than the one in her apartment in the city, and there was hardly any food in the pantry that warranted cooking. There were, however, many bags of corn chips and other varieties in abundance, at which Rachel shook her head. She could never understand how boys never ate healthy food when left to their own devices. She herself was fond of good food and exercise – it was important to look good in her chosen career. But corn chips were all there were, and a little rifling through the fridge found three unopened jars of extra-hot salsa. There was also three-quarters of a bag of shredded cheese and three cans of refried beans.

"What are you making, Rach?" Billy called when the smell from the oven permeated the living room after a while.

"Nachos," she called back, bending down to pull out some clean plates from the back of the cupboard. The rest of the plates were dirty, and she grimaced at how long they were likely to have been dumped in the sink. Knowing Jacob and Billy, probably a long time. Rachel briefly considered forcing Jacob to wash the dishes in honour of her return home, but this thought was quickly discarded in light of a more pressing one.

"Hey dad, where's Jacob? It's nearly nine o'clock."

"Oh, he's...out. Should be home soon, though."

"What, at a friend's place? Are you sure he isn't staying there for dinner? I wouldn't blame him," she said, only half-joking.

Billy laughed, his deep voice sounding under the cheering of the baseball game on television. "Yeah, something like that. The kid's hardly home, these days."

"A real social butterfly," Rachel muttered, rolling her eyes as she selected another plate from the back of the cupboard. If Jacob at sixteen was anything like Jacob at thirteen, he would be the dorkiest kid on the reservation with his skinny limbs and gangly build and shoulder-length wavy black hair and tendency to stutter upon female interaction. She could honestly not imagine him as someone who was out so much that he was hardly home.

She pulled the nachos out of the oven with a pair of worn oven mitts, careful to avoid the holes and thus prevent burning her hands. She sat it on the kitchen table on top of two old editions of some car magazine that could have belonged to either her father or her brother, setting out the three plates and forks around the table with Billy at the head. Digging out some sour cream from the fridge and sticking a spoon in it, she called out to Billy.

"Dad, dinner's ready."

"Coming!" She heard the television turn off and the squeaking of Billy's wheels on the wooden floorboards and then the linoleum. He parked himself at the head of the table, pushing up his sleeves and tying his long black-grey hair up in a ponytail with a piece of twine from his pocket. Unfolding a serviette, he put it down on his lap. Billy looked up at her expectantly, a smile gracing his features. "Smells good, Rach."

"No problem." She scooped some nachos onto his plate and some onto her own, sitting down at the place on his left and picking up her fork. The wood of the table was worn, and she found herself staring at the hundreds of marks that marred the surface, wondering what Jacob and Billy's lives had been like, stuck here on the reservation, in the same house, for all these years. She considered herself lucky that she had escaped to university and not been stuck here with them – it could not have been a happy existence.

"So, Rach," Billy began, scooping cheese-covered corn chips into his mouth, "How does it feel to be degree-qualified?"

She allowed herself a small smile. "Good. I'm just so glad it's over. I don't think I could've kept it up for another year."

"I'm glad, too," Billy said. "We've missed having you around. And fast-tracking your degree – graduating early! We're proud of you, Rach. I know your mum would be proud of you, too."

And now the reason she had been dreading coming home had arrived. Rachel cleared her throat, looking down intently at her dinner to avoid looking at Billy. In the city, she had escaped thinking about anything related to her childhood on the reservation for three whole years. To come back now and think that she would be able to continue the relatively comfortable existence she had maintained over the course of her degree was stupidly naive.

Her mother's death had been the reason that she had left, and it seemed that Billy was hanging onto her memory with everything he had. The furniture in the living room had not been rearranged since all those years ago, the rug and the tribal artwork hanging on the walls had been her mother's handiwork, and she was sure that if she ever found a reason to see her father's room, he would still sleep on his side of the bed, always waiting for another warm person to slip in beside him. Come to think of it, Rachel's and Rebecca's room would probably have not changed, either. Why would it have?

Billy was obviously not feeling the awkward silence that had arisen after his words, and if he was, he certainly was not showing it as he continued to eat dinner. That had always been a talent of her father's – to feel or appear comfortable in any situation, whether it was his wife's funeral, his absent daughter's wedding, his son's imminent absence, or his other absent daughter's return after three years of not coming home.

Rachel, on the other hand, could not stand silences like this. She usually always had something to say, whether it be a biting comment, a mere observation about the environment or a phone call which she absolutely had to take. She had always been more like her mother than Rebecca or Jacob, and she realised now just how empty the house must have been with her mother not being there to fill the silences with her excited chattering or her terrible singing.

"Um..." she cleared her throat, the sound seeming very loud in the silence. "How have you been, dad? Has Jake been looking after you?"

Billy grunted. "Jake has his own issues. Sue's been around a lot, though. You remember Sue, right? Sue Clearwater?"

"I was best friends with Leah – how could I _not _remember Sue Clearwater? She'll have been taking care of you, I'm sure." Rachel remembered Sue; a strong-willed woman who was absolutely convinced that she had to take care of every person who crossed the threshold of her house – whether they wanted her to or not. Billy would have been fine. But Jacob... "What's up with Jacob?"

Billy's eyes, surprisingly enough, shifted to his fork on the table. "Just normal teenage stuff, you know...girls and friends, that kind of thing."

"Is he out with Quil or Embry? They are still his best friends, right?"

"Yeah, they're still pretty close."

Rachel was not going to pretend that she had not noticed that he had not answered her first question. She supposed it was her training as a barrister – when a witness was under cross-examination, the barrister had to exploit every weakness. To do this, the barrister had to take note of every single detail, and not miss anything. Needless to say, Rachel made a very good barrister. Just because he was her father did not mean that he was not under cross-examination.

"So Jacob's out with Quil and Embry?"

Billy shuffled in his wheelchair. "Um...Quil, I think. Embry's mum's pretty protective of him these days."

"Are you sure?" Rachel pressed. "Should I call the Atearas to find out?"

"No, he'll be home soon," Billy said quickly, glancing at the clock on the wall above the kitchen table. It was almost eleven o'clock.

"Doesn't he have school in the morning?"

Billy blinked. "Oh, it's Monday tomorrow. Yeah, he does."

"Dad...Jake _has _been going to school, hasn't he?"

"'Course he has."

In the course of her degree, Rachel had learnt many things about psychology in relation to witness behaviour. One of the units had been lying. There were several signs that could be read to know if someone was lying. Avoidance of eye contact, closed-off posture, fidgeting with the hands, hair or feet, scratching of appendages and many other tells. Right now, her father was exhibiting all of these signs at once. If that was not enough to make Rachel suspicious, he was also deflecting her questions.

"If Jake hasn't been going to school –"

"DAD, I'M HOME!"

It seemed that the interrogation would have to wait.

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**A/N: Read and review, pretty please? The Handsome Paul may come in next chapter if you do...**


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